you could be happy, and i wont know
by drjohnhwatson
Summary: 221B has never felt so lonely, and there have never been so many cups of tea lying around in inappropriate places. My take on what might happen if Sherlock did The Final Problem. Not slash,three shot. Now complete.
1. everything i own smells of you

John Watson ran his hands over his face and slumped into his armchair, pulling the cushion from behind his back and placing it on his lap.  
The flat seemed empty without Sherlock and his usual experiments, or his snide remarks about Sarah or the quality of John's tea. He missed the man, missed the thrill of the adventure and chase. He had the work at the surgery, but it was dull compared to running through London at the heels of the world's only and greatest consulting detective.

Mrs Hudson had tried to keep morale up, but nothing that she said seemed to have any effect on John or his emotions. He felt like a part of him was missing, bigger than just the chaos that usually surrounded him, bigger than the next adventure. He missed the part of him that was the man who introduced him to it all.

He went to bed early these days. There was a time when he didn't sleep for days, caught up in one of Sherlock's cases. Nowadays he went to bed at nine pm every night, on the dot. Sometimes he would gather himself enough to push open Sherlock's bedroom door before retiring to his own room. Sometimes he'd push the door open and switch the light on, then go to bed with the light streaming outside his door, almost as if the man himself was in there conducting an experiment or reading. At his lowest, John could almost swear he could hear the man's slender fingers tapping away on the keyboard of his laptop, which was open but not turned on, on his bed. Just where he left it.

Once, about two weeks after Sherlock had gone (John refused to call it anything else), he had gone into his bedroom, laid himself on the bed without disturbing the laptop and cried, great racking sobs that shook his bones so much that he thought they were rattling in his body. He hadn't cried since.  
Sarah had been extremely understanding. She'd given him a month off of work (a month of which he spent in his pyjamas, brushing his teeth in three day intervals and drinking around six cups of coffee to stop himself from falling asleep only to be woken up by nightmares) with the usual sympathetic look that lots of people had given him since...well since Sherlock had left. He resented it but said nothing.

The nightmares were the worst thing about losing Sherlock. The man's eyes as he toppled from the edge of the falls, the surprise on his features, the howl as he and Moriarty, locked in a grip so intense that it made John's stomach clench, fell to the rocks below. Actually no, he decided, the nightmares weren't the worst thing. They were horrific, soul destroying images conjured from his own sub-conscious to taunt and torture him as if to say "You could have saved him," but they were only the tip of the iceberg. The worst thing about losing Sherlock was the crushing, heart-wrenching weight in his chest, as if every breath was a hardship, gut wrenching and hollow in his lungs. Breathing wasn't easy like it was before. He had to think about it. Sometimes the steady intake of his own breath would frighten him in the silent flat and his heart rate would pick up, leaving him to fight off the effects of his latest panic attack.

* * *

He'd never suffered from panic attacks before Sherlock left. Not even when he came back from Afghanistan. Post traumatic stress, yes, but never panic attacks. As a Doctor he knew they were a result of the stress and worry and the sleepless nights, but as a man, he knew that one) he wasn't going to get rid of them anytime soon, and two) he didn't want to get rid of them. Truthfully, they were the only thing that made him feel alive. The pounding of his heart and the dryness of his mouth would bring him back down to earth with an ear shattering thud (or so it seemed in his head) and it would remind him "_you're alive, you're here_," when he felt like he wasn't. The slightly hysterical part of his mind would yell back "_Why should you be alive when Sherlock isn't? What are you without Sherlock? You're pathetic and if you were any sort of a friend to Sherlock Holmes you would have done something to save him you worthless piece of useless flab!" _It's odd how the brain processes criticism isn't it? How the brain chooses to believe the negative over the positive?

John wasn't even sure his mind was working properly. There would be periods of time when he would forget what he had done or what patients he had seen or whether he'd put the cat out or did he even have a cat? It felt like time was skipping and then fast forwarding. He would wake up in bed not remembering climbing into it the previous night. No, this was not living. This was merely existing.  
He knew Sherlock would not approve, in his heart. He knew he would fix him with a steely, icy glare and exclaim exasperatedly "You're killing yourself John! Snap out of it man!" but he just couldn't get the fog to clear. Everyday was a struggle. His mind would constantly repeat "_He's gone, he's not coming back, Sherlock is gone_," like a morbid mantra and he was sure it was slowly driving him mad.

Lestrade was worried about him, he knew. Sometimes he met him for coffee and he would fix him with a half pitying, half worried gaze that John found to be so intensely penetrating that he would have to look away. On the rare occasion that John visited the Yard, Anderson and Donovan would give him half smiles and he would fight the urge to punch them in their faces because he knew they were not grieving for Sherlock, they were just attempting to lessen the blow that the whole Yard felt. After Sherlock left, the Yard had fallen into a state of quiet appreciation for the man that had helped them so much. Half of the police officers and detectives owed their reputations to Sherlock, including Lestrade. John would look around and his face would break into a smug half smile to know that nearly everyone in the room owed everything to Sherlock. At least, if he was gone, he was still here somehow, in the jobs of everyone around him.

It wasn't good enough though. There needed to be more. The only reason he went to the Yard was to ask developments on whether Sherlock's or Moriarty's body had been found. It was the same every week. No new developments, no bodies, no witnesses, and John would go back to 221B with another sunken feeling in his heart. He'd heard that Mycroft had gone to the Falls, and even he, with all his power, had found nothing.  
He hadn't spoken to Mycroft since that day. He didn't know quite what to say. John was his friend, but Mycroft had been his brother. Still was his brother, John berated himself. He'd nodded curtly in greeting and Mycroft had offered one in return, before John had said a quiet "I'm sorry," and felt angry with himself for doing so. Mycroft had regarded him with an almost surprised stare, but then his face softened and he'd said quietly back "Me too, Doctor Watson." That had been it.

John moved from the armchair (how long had he been sitting there?) and rubbed his bad shoulder. It was cold in the flat, always was now, since he could remember, and that aggravated his shoulder even more. He padded through the kitchen and boiled the kettle. Mundane everyday tasks, but they always brought back memories of Sherlock. It had been nearly three years, but John could never rid himself of the thoughts of his friend, tinkering silently away on his chemistry set, reading the paper in his own armchair, playing the violin on the sofa, smiling as John handed him tea.  
He banged his fist on the counter and rattled the cups.  
Two.  
He had never been able to make just one cup of tea anymore.


	2. you made me happier than id been by far

hello! thankyou very much for the reviews and feedback. Sorry about the lack of spacing, fanfiction was being annoying. I hope its ok now though.  
I don't own Sherlock or John, and I dont own the Adventure of the Final Problem, but if i did, i'd be very proud indeed.  
All credit goes to the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who without, we would never have Sherlock or John at all, and also to some degree Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, for reviving Holmes and Watson for a new generation. Mine.

* * *

New Years Eve 2010. 10.59pm.

Pacing was never something John did. He hated going from room to room, worrying over trivial matters, but since Sherlock had left he seemed to be doing it more and more often. Never in front of people though, always on his own. Mrs Hudson would disapprove and Inspector Lestrade would probably sigh, give him a pitying look that John hated, clap a hand to his back and say "Its been three years, he's not coming back." John scoffed. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately too.

It wasn't that John believed he was coming back anymore. Every bone in his body screamed that he should think rationally and move on, but his heart said otherwise. There was always an odd kind of hope,though, a kind of swelling in his chest that nearly always manifested itself at Christmas or New Years.  
Try as he might, he could never rid himself of the thought of Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs, slow and heavy and weary. Every year he could see Sherlock walking through the door, discarding his gloves on the table, smiling and saying "Tea?" He wasn't surprised when it never happened, though.

He stopped at the window and glanced down into the street. Snow covered the ground and the tops of the cars lining the road. It was the first time it had snowed in London in nearly two years. He knew Sherlock wouldn't like it. He'd hmph and rant about how the snow hindered work on his cases and John would smile fondly as Sherlock lazed around in his pyjamas and dressing gown, moaning about how he was bored and cold and bored some shook his head as if to clear it and rubbed his leg; his limp had come back. He sank heavily into his armchair and closed his eyes.  
Christmas had been brutal, just like all the other Christmas' since Sherlock had gone. He'd spent half of it at Mrs Hudson's, eating and exchanging half hearted gifts. Sherlock had always got him thoughtful but odd presents: a book on medical wonders, a watch that doubled as a pager. He loved them though, and made sure to wear them or use them in Sherlock's presence, if only sometimes to see the younger man smirk. He would give Sherlock items of clothing such as a new scarf or shoes (once he'd given him a cashmere jumper in dark blue and he had seemed delighted, which made John almost deliriously happy) and he would accept with a kind of closed gratefulness. Since he'd been gone, John could never bring himself to buy clothes for Christmas for anyone else.

The rest of Christmas day had been spent alone in 221B with numerous mugs of tea and a heavy heart. It had frightened him, how much he cared about the man who had kept him up all night playing the violin, who had dragged him around what seemed like the whole of London on cases. The man who rarely slept, barely ate and who sometimes didn't talk, instead folding in on himself like a giant origami bird, for days on end.

John was usually a strong man. He'd fought in a war and stared criminals in the face with all the defiance and determination of a soldier, but this, this was where he couldn't fight. No weapons or any amount of bargaining could bring Sherlock back, and he had no idea what he was going to do about it.  
The clock said 11.56pm before he rose from the armchair and switched on the small TV to see the beaming smiles on the faces of the audience before Big Ben, counting down the minutes to a new year. He sighed, limped through to the landing and up the stairs to the spare room. _"No," _his mind corrected furiously, Sherlock's room, now and always.

He pushed open the door (half expecting the man to be sat on the bed in his shirtsleeves and trousers and shoes, tapping away on his laptop's keypad and making notes every few minutes, or even for his deep voice to shout "Don't come in John, there's acid on the floor!" or words to that effect) and switched the light on. The familiar room made his heart jump wildly and ache in his chest. It still smelt of everything...Sherlock. Chemicals mixed with aftershave, musky and dark, old books and two things John couldn't identify but smelled suspiciously like rotten eggs and milk that had gone off. He almost laughed. No matter how bad it smelled, however, the worst thing about the room was that it smelt of time. Like the room had been vacant for thirty years instead of three, like it should have cobwebs hanging from every corner and bats flitting around the light fitting. It was pungent and hung in the air and distressed John every time he went in there. Why should the room look as if it was being lived in, but smell like a thousand years had passed?  
The still working but never used alarm clock (Sherlock got up and went to bed whenever he felt like it, so there was no need for it really) said 11.58pm. John breathed slowly, laid down around the laptop, head on one of Sherlock's pillows. There had been plenty of time when he'd walked in on Sherlock asleep, sometimes with a cup of tea thinking that he was still awake, and he would smile at how peaceful the man looked for once, his hair splayed out on the pillow, ivory contrasting with ebony as his dark curls graced the fabric and his skin glowed in the darkness. It was these moments that John like and found he could remember with some amount of fondness and happiness in his heart, the ethereal moments where Sherlock lived up to his other-worldly intelligent persona: mind body and soul.

* * *

11.59.  
He could hear the crowd on TV going wild, their happiness evident as they waited for that one minute to pass. The ache in his heart bloomed to his lungs and with a start he realised he was crying, great shuddering breaths alerting him.  
He fisted his hands in the bed sheets as if trying to hold on to part of Sherlock somehow, shaking with the effort of concealing his sobs, even if there was no one to conceal them from.  
Big Ben chimed in the New Year, the crowd's noise reaching a crescendo. John shook and wondered idly if the people in the audience had met loved ones for the year, imagined them hugging and crying happily, yelling "Happy New Years!" in each others ears or whispered "I'm so glad you're here"'s.  
John wished that his muttered "Sherlock. Dear God Sherlock"'s could be heard too, by no one other than the man he knew would never hear them.


	3. you could be happy, i hope you are

Hello! Thank you all so much for reading, I really do appreciate it.  
I've enjoyed writing this fic, although for reasons unknown. I think it turned out ok considering I started writing it in college on Monday when I wasn't paying attention in class!  
I do love Sherlock and John, and i've tried to stick to Conan Doyles ideas of them both, with a little of Moffat and Gatiss' ideas thrown in, but I cant tell if i've done them justice or if ive made them too touchy-feely with each other. Oh well, I hope its not too bad.  
All credit goes once again to Conan Doyle and the Moff and Mark, and althought I don't own Sherlock or John, i consider them to be the best friends i've ever had.

* * *

"John? John!"  
He jerked suddenly out of his reverie and looked up at the woman before him.  
"Sorry Sarah, what did you want?" He didn't bother trying to plaster a fake smile on his face anymore, everyone only saw right through it.  
"You've been sitting here for twenty minutes and no one has come in or out."  
"Oh." Hadn't they?  
Sarah sighed heavily and entered the small room properly, closing the door behind her.  
"You've got to stop this John. It's been three years now, just over in fact. He's not..." She finished when John sent her a warning look that meant "Don't say it."  
"You barely sleep John, you don't eat properly, and when you talk it's like...like you're talking to the air or half the time it's like you're not even thinking about what you're saying, you're just talking because you need an answer. Maybe if you had been a bit more...we could have..." she trailed off.  
John looked up at her. His and Sarah's relationship had broken up less than a month after Sherlock had gone. Right now he found himself thinking that he didn't care in the slightest.  
"A bit more what, Sarah? A bit more manly? A bit more unthinking or uncaring, like Sherlock?" his voice had risen a few decibels now. He was suddenly surprised because he hadn't shouted in years.  
"Maybe if I had been a bit more arrogant and unfeeling you would have stayed with me? Well maybe I should be. Maybe I should forget all about the man I'd shared nearly every aspect of my life with for years, maybe I should forget his face as Moriarty pulled him off the falls and I couldn't help him. Maybe I should just forget the fact that I lost my closest friend in all the world and go back to being plain, dull, boring old John!" he was breathing heavily now, on his feet.  
Sarah bowed her head and he breathed out slowly, trying to calm himself.  
"You know what, don't even bother firing me, because I quit," he said, picked up his coat, flung the door open and walked out.

The walk back to Baker Street chilled him. He didn't take cabs anymore. Too many memories.  
He turned into Baker Street, limping heavily and knocked straight into someone.  
"Oh, sorry," John said, an instinctive, effortless reaction, and stopped to pick up the man's mobile that he'd inadvertently made him drop.  
"It's quite alright," the man said offering a half smile through his moustache and swiftly taking the phone back. "Thank you."  
"No problem."  
John smiled back half heartedly and continued back to 221B, no better off for any interaction. Sarah was wrong about meeting new people then.  
He unlocked the door and moved up the stairs.  
"Afternoon dear! Good shift?" Mrs Hudson trilled from her doorway.  
"I quit," he called back grumpily.  
"Oh dear, but you can't! You won't be ab-."  
"Dull," he interrupted quietly, shutting the door.

He moved to the kitchen and made tea, then grabbed his laptop from the sofa, set it on his desk and turned it on. His desk was cluttered; writing paraphernalia and old mugs of tea crowded and pushed together, wires from his laptop, medical books and magazines, everything John needed or even thought about was on that desk. Except for one thing.  
Sherlock used to sit on his desk (stood on it once too, when he changed a light bulb. Dented the woodwork with his shoes, John grumbled mentally) and read case notes aloud to him. He would perch on the edge, or sometimes John would come home and all of his stuff would be on the floor and Sherlock would be sitting cross-legged in the middle of his desk, head knelt on his clasped hands, eyes closed deep in thought. John would grumble and grouch and roll his eyes but Sherlock would pretend not to hear him. He didn't know if he actually couldn't or whether he was just being a tart for the sake of it.

The laptop whirred insistently and he typed in his password (where were the days when he wasn't the only one who knew it?) settling into the chair. Reaching over to move the wires, he accidently tipped a pencil pot over, revealing a stack of letters underneath.  
He forgot about the pencil pot and its contents for a moment and picked up the letter, heart pounding, mouth dry. He'd read it once before had spent two days locked in a vicious battle with himself over whether he was just imagining it or whether it was real.  
He'd recognised the handwriting when he first saw it, under a rock, half peeking out, fluttering in the wind on the bank of the falls, and it had been so painful, and he would have thrown it away had he not remembered that there was something important in the envelope. It was Sherlock's careful, neat chicken scratch that John had seem him use so many times before, and it was addressed just simply,  
John.  
He didn't know what distressed him more: that this letter was Sherlock's last, or that Sherlock had cared enough to simply sign it John, instead of Doctor Watson.  
He'd opened it with curiosity but horrible sadness, like a bubble was growing in his chest and pushing outwards to every nerve ending in his body.  
He'd been so unexplainably lost when he'd read it, like he had no one and that this letter was a final goodbye from the one person he'd never wanted to lose.  
He gathered himself and opened the envelope one again. It had grown fragile since its last read. The paper was smudged from John's fingers, but he could make out the words clearly.

_My dearest John, [it said]_  
_I write this letter under the extremely watchful eye of a certain Jim Moriarty. He had told me all of how he fooled the ever so reliable team at Scotland Yard, and how he kept up with all our movements and plans. They're very commendable, actually, almost genius._  
_I can get rid of him, but it comes at a price and I fear that it will pain my...acquaintances over the years, and of course, you, John._  
_As I have already explained, however, my career is dangerous, and I'm afraid that there is no other possible way out of this case._  
_If I may tell you though, I knew that the email from Meringen was a hoax, and I allowed you to go under the thought that all was well and developments would be made shortly. Please tell Inspector Lestrade that the papers he needs to convict the gang are on my laptop in a file named 'Moriarty.'_  
_I have handed all payments of rent on my behalf over to Mycroft, and you should feel free to use our Baker Street residence for as long as you wish. Give my regards to Mrs Hudson and believe me to be, my dear John, very sincerely yours,_  
_Sherlock Holmes._

Reading it again made his hands shake. This was the last piece of Sherlock that John himself owned, and yet he wanted to lock it away and never look at it ever again.  
There was a knock downstairs at the front door and John heard Mrs Hudson's voice and then a thump which must have been the door closing and then footsteps on the stairs.  
He got to his feet just as a man entered, dark haired and long nosed, a moustache on his upper lip and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.  
"Um, I hope you don't mind, your landlady sent me up," he said gesturing downstairs. He was dressed plainly, jeans and a shirt.  
"Er right, yes, Sorry but who are you?" John rubbed his forehead and closed his laptop quickly, moving round in front of his desk.  
"Oh, sorry, of course. I bumped into you earlier in the street and I just wanted to say sorry-"  
Oh, yes, Jon remembered the moustache now.  
"-because you walked off quite quickly-oh hold on sorry," he said as his phone beeped. His fingers moved over the keypad swiftly and he sent a text and turned back.  
"So yes, I was just checking to see if you were okay and I hope that I didn't cause you any harm."  
"Oh, um no I'm quite alright thankyou, I-" he was interrupted by his own phone beeping and he turned round to his desk to grab it an answer.

**UNKNOWN NUMBER**  
**MESSAGE:** Behind you, John.

John furrowed his brow, turned and then nearly had a heart attack and a stroke at the same time, for standing before him, moustache free, devoid of glasses and with a normal sized nose, was Sherlock Holmes.  
"Hello, John," he smiled wearily, his eyes twinkling.  
"B-but," John managed, before he collapsed into the armchair next to him.

* * *

When he came to, slender fingers were unbuttoning the top of his shirt and waving tea under his nose in a mug he hadn't seen since...  
"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in the chair and nearly knocking the man kneeling in front of him off of his toes.  
"John I must apologise, I didn't realise you would faint!"  
"I didn't faint," John said crossly, sipping the tea. "Eurgh! How much sugar is in this?" he asked, scrunching his nose in disgust.  
"Five teaspoons," Sherlock said, as if it was normal, getting up and sitting in the opposite armchair, ignoring John's other remark. "I thought it might wake you up."  
"I think I'll pass thanks."  
"Your loss."  
John stared, then started laughing. The giggles turned into hysterical bellows and tears streamed down his face.  
"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked wearily.  
"I'm laughing because you're not real! I've finally cracked and gone insane and now I'm having hallucinations that you've come back and it's like you were never away!" he was grinning now, the laughter fading.  
"I assure you that you are quite sane, and I am real."  
"But you've been gone for three years!"  
"It was...necessary."  
"Necessary?" John was angry now. "It was necessary to leave me thinking you were...gone, for three years?" No communication, no emails, calls, texts, letters, nothing! I'd almost given up hope Sherlock! Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to..." he trailed off, head in his hands. "Mycroft knew didn't he?"  
"Yes," Sherlock said, after a pause.  
"Oh great!" John cried out, throwing his hands in the air. "Plain, dull John, always the last to know!" he buried his head in his hands again.  
After another pregnant pause, he felt himself be pulled up out of the chair by a pair of thin but strong hands.  
Warm arms enclosed him, hair tickled his face and breath fanned his neck.  
"John...I – I missed you," came Sherlock's strangled voice from the crease of John's neck.  
John breathed and clutched the back of Sherlock's shirt in a vice like grip.  
"Sherlock. God Sherlock I've missed you too. Dear God I've missed you so much," he half whispered into the man's shoulder earnestly, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the barrage of tears threatening to pour from his eyes.  
"I nearly called you so many times, so many...but I couldn't, I couldn't risk Moriarty's gang tracing my phone," the man said quietly, fingers clasping the back of John's jumper like he needed safety, comfort, reassurance that he was finally home after three long years of being away. Well, that was alright, John thought. He could give it to him.  
"I would have called if I didn't think..."  
John realised that Sherlock was thinking of his safety. He thought that if he called John, Moriarty's gang would trace the call, know Sherlock was alive, search out John and kill him, then go back for Sherlock, and it would be game over for both of them. It was times like these when he knew for sure that being alive was beautiful and that if he and Sherlock were alive together, in Baker Street, drinking tea into the early hours of the morning and seeing Sherlock's bed hair at 10am because he'd slept on the sofa, was even more wonderful. He felt eternally grateful that Sherlock had tried to protect him.  
"Thank you," he whispered into the man's own neck.  
"It was imperative that I protected you, John, imperative, and the only way to do that was to make you think I'd gone the same way as dear old Moriarty."  
The sarcasm dripped off of the last couple of words and John wanted to laugh, but instead squashed it and breathed "I know," into the man's skin.

They stood in silence for a while, their arms still round each other tightly, each trying to convey to the other that they would never leave, or leave again if they could help it. John wanted to tell him that he would fight anyone in his company, and to never decide things that weren't his to decide again, but the words got stuck in his throat so he left them there.  
They spent the rest of the evening on the sofa, Sherlock regaling John with tales of his life over the last three years, and John trying not to give away that he'd spent practically all of it moping.  
By three am, their eyes could stay open no longer and they leant on each other, Sherlock's cheek resting on the top of John's head, bodies always in close vicinity.  
John sighed and remembered something.  
"Sherlock, when you came in, what was that thump downstairs? Was it the front door?"  
"Oh no, it was Mrs Hudson."  
"What?" John cried, his eyes snapping open as he jumped to his feet.  
"She fainted, but it's alright, I carried her in to her sofa."  
"Sherlock she's elderly! You don't leave elderly people who've just fainted on their own!" John groaned, going for the door.  
"Really? Oh, I'm quite sure she's alright. She's a very resilient lady, a lot like you, in fact."  
John hmphed and started down the stairs.  
"Oh John!" Sherlock's voice called from upstairs. John growled under his breath, moved to the top and poked his head in, looking at the man who had stretched himself out on the sofa, all long limbs and curly hair on a cushion, eyes closed, with a withering and frustrated stare. Blimey, he'd only been back a few hours, he thought inwardly, then grinned a little, thankful that Sherlock's eyes were closed.  
"What?"  
"You were never dull or plain," Sherlock said, matter of factly, and then smiled, eyes still closed.  
John's grin turned into a beam and right then, he was sure no moment would ever be as beautiful as it was right now.


End file.
